


A Little Crisis

by guttersouled



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5220767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guttersouled/pseuds/guttersouled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> lord only knows where this is going, but sometimes you just gotta

Harry wakes up — head pounding, a crick in his neck, sore muscles in peculiar places — and immediately wishes he hadn't.

It's one of _those_ hangovers; one that's bad enough on its own but is made markedly worse by the fact that there's someone in his bed, someone whose arm has been wedged under his neck all night, someone who looks, to Harry's unadorned eyes, uncannily like Draco Malfoy.

Harry gropes around on his bedside table for his specs and puts them on. The someone stops looking uncannily like Draco Malfoy and starts looking exactly like Draco Malfoy. Harry takes his glasses off again.

"Shit," he says, quite succinctly, and climbs out of bed. He's naked as the day he was born, just in case there was any lingering doubt over whether he and Malfoy copped off. Not that there was, particularly; sore muscles in peculiar places, and all that.

As quietly as he can manage — which isn't quiet at all, really, but apparently Malfoy's a very sound sleeper — Harry nabs a pair of pyjama pants from his wardrobe and beats a tactical retreat.

He ends up in the study, holding his dusty, disused phone to his ear in a death grip, thanking his lucky stars that Hermione bullied him into buying it and that he was soft enough to let her. (Dudley rings once a year, at Christmas, and Harry usually misses it and has to call back on Boxing Day; it's very weird and awkward, especially when Dudley's girlfriend answers and tries to wring as much childhood-centric gossip out of Harry as possible in the ten seconds it takes Dudley to get to the phone. Other than that one phone call per annum, the phone sits on Sirius' dad's old desk, neglected.)

"Mum," Hermione says when she finally picks up at the other end, "it's eight thirty on a _Sunday_."

"Hermione, thank God," Harry says. "Pretend I'm your mum!"

"Er, okay, Mum," Hermione replies. What a girl, Harry knew he could count on her. "Why?"

"You remember last night, at the pub?" They'd spent the evening with Dean, Seamus, and Luna in a tiny pub run by a Muggleborn in Richmond; they'd picked it because it was almost entirely devoid of wizards, but you could still get Butterbeer if you asked nicely. Plus, there were no paps waiting outside - always an incentive to go somewhere, in Harry's opinion. "Do you remember who I went home with?"

"Oh, God," Hermione says, with an undignified snort. "You haven't forgotten their _name_ , have you?"

"What? No! Why would you think— never mind. No, Hermione, I went home with _Draco Malfoy_."

There's dead silence on the other end of the phone. Then Hermione clears her throat. "Right," she says. "Well."

"What do you mean, _right well_? He's stark bollock naked in my bed!"

"Thanks for the image," Hermione says, and she actually sounds _amused_ , the traitor. "I'm not sure why you're ringing me up at eight thirty on a Sunday to tell me about it."

"I," Harry says, because he's not sure either. His headache, alleviated somewhat by the sudden appearance of nude Slytherins, is back with a vengeance. "I just needed moral support, or something. Which, by the way, you're shit at."

"Oh, really? Should I put you on to Ron?"

"Ha ha," Harry says, "and don't you bloody tell him, Hermione."

"I won't," Hermione replies blithely. Harry's not convinced. "What do you take me for? _Anyway_ ," she adds, with a rather saucy air, "tell me more. How was it?"

Harry gapes for a moment, before pulling himself resolutely together. "You can't ask me that," he says, "Ron thinks you're talking to your mum."

"Ron is sound asleep and snoring. You have to give me _something_ for waking me up this early for your little crisis, Harry."

Harry bristles at 'little crisis' — it's a bloody fucking large crisis, thank you — but relents. Of course he does. He had sex with Draco Malfoy.

"Well," he says, "from what I can remember, he was very be..."

Harry trails off as he hears a bump from down the hall, followed by the distinct sound of footsteps and his bedroom door creaking open. He whispers, "Oh my God Hermione he's awake I'll talk to you later," in one breath and flings the phone back to the cradle, before sidling to the study door and trying to mould his features into something other than Deer In Headlights.

He's only mildly successful.

Malfoy is standing on Harry's landing with the kind of nonchalant elegance that Harry himself has never been able to manage, made all the more remarkable for the fact that Malfoy is only wearing a pair of pants and bedhead. He looks, in short, fucking delicious, and Harry would honestly like nothing more than to tumble him back into bed.

How awful.

"Potter," Malfoy says, when Harry steps into the hallway, attempting casual. "I thought I'd dreamed you. Where's the loo?"

Harry points at the appropriate door and Malfoy disappears behind it, and the snap of the door closing brings Harry's headache flooding back. He dithers, hungover and weirdly aroused, before realising he can't get his hands on a hangover potion because Malfoy's in the bathroom. Harry point-blank refuses to lurk outside the his own bathroom door like a creepy weirdo, so he does the only useful thing he can think of: he goes to put the kettle on.

-

Harry is halfway through a gigantic cup of builder’s tea and feeling decidedly embarrassed about his ‘little crisis’ when Malfoy appears in the kitchen, fully dressed and looking enviably unruffled. He looks Harry up and down — Harry snagged a t-shirt on his way to the kitchen, but is incredibly aware of his bare feet — and smirks in a way that takes Harry straight back to school, except at school Harry didn't feel like Malfoy was going to eat him.

In an effort not to appear uncivilised, Harry points in the general direction of the kettle. “Tea?”

"Coffee," Malfoy says, "if you have it."

Harry has it. It’s Hermione’s, technically; she got addicted to the stuff in the last year of her degree, and there’s still a packet lying around from when she and Ron lived in Grimmauld Place. It’s probably not up to Malfoy’s standards — it’s instant, and possibly from Tesco’s — but Harry dumps a spoonful of the stuff into a mug and flicks the kettle on.

He goes to grab the milk out of the fridge, but Malfoy says, “Black,” and Harry should have guessed that, really.

Harry resumes his defensive position next to the sink, waiting for the kettle to boil and watching Malfoy. Malfoy’s leaning against the kitchen table, and Harry feels like that should annoy him — Malfoy’s bum touching his table, and all that — but it’s hardly like he finds Malfoy abhorrent, is it? Especially not in an oxford that probably cost a small fortune, and a pair of well-fitting trousers that Harry vividly remembers peeling off with some vigour the night before. Harry feels himself blush, right to the roots of his hair, and turns around to fiddle with the teaspoon before Malfoy can see.

Malfoy looks smug as shit when Harry hands him his coffee.

Harry picks up his own mammoth mug and holds it like a protective shield in front of his chest, wishing he’d gotten dressed when Malfoy was in the loo. His arms feel very bare, and Malfoy keeps looking at him.

Morning sex, Harry can't help but reflect, would have at least made this part slightly less horribly awkward. Going straight from sleep to sex breaks some of the This Was A Terrible Decision, Oh God, Please Leave My House tension. Wake-up blowjobs head off the mortification before it has a chance to set in. In retrospect, Harry thinks with chagrin, he probably shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.

However, judging by Malfoy’s expression as he eyes Harry over the rim of his mug, morning sex is still on the table.

Except, not the actual table.

Well.

Harry has a momentary vision of Malfoy spread out, face down and mewling, across _the table where his friends eat_ before Malfoy checks his watch, grimaces, downs the remainder of his coffee and stands up straight.

There goes that, then.

Malfoy saunters across to where Harry’s standing and backs him up against the counter, reaching around him to place his mug in the sink and bracketing Harry — whose fight, flight or fuck instincts are kicking in, and wobbling around somewhere between the last two — against the sideboard. He ghosts a kiss over the bolt of Harry’s jaw, and Harry reaches up and—

Malfoy pulls back and smiles. “Thanks for the shag, Potter,” he says, and disappears out the door, leaving Harry, aroused and confused, being held up by his kitchen sink.

"Right," Harry says to the empty room. "Bye, then."


End file.
